


The Beast in Your Head

by glorious_spoon



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-13
Updated: 2010-02-13
Packaged: 2017-12-15 16:54:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/851830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glorious_spoon/pseuds/glorious_spoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mary doesn't really remember, but she also can't forget. Coda to 5.13, contains spoilers through that episode.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Beast in Your Head

It's not like there aren't other things she keeps from John, but this is different. This isn't about hunting, even if the knot in her stomach feels just like kissing the creature that wore her father's body, sick and horrible and wrong.  
  
This isn't about hunting, but she doesn't want to think what it is about. No good mother has nightmares about her own sons.  
  
Dean's recovering from the chickenpox, itchy and grumpy and kicking at his dinosaur sheets, and Mary sits on the edge of his bed and strokes his hair back from his sweaty forehead and murmurs the words to a sweet-slow hippie song, soft enough that she won't wake Sammy in his crib.  
  
 _...and anytime you feel the pain, hey Jude, refrain  
Don't carry the world upon your shoulders.._  
  
He quiets, small fingers playing with the cuffs of his pajamas, and whispers the familiar words along with her. Mary leans down to brush her lips against his forehead, and his eyes blink open for an instant, sleepy and beautiful green. John's already laughing about how his oldest son is going to be a ladykiller when he grows up.  
  
 _Green eyes, long lashes, tired eyes framed by premature lines, so sad that her heart could break to look at them. A mouth that's trying hard to smile._  
  
"Instead of lullabies, you would sing me 'Hey Jude'. It's your favorite Beatles song."  
  
"Mommy?"  
  
"Shhh, sweetie," she murmurs, pressing another kiss to the freckled tip of his nose. She's imagining the thrill of horror that slides through her. She has to be. This is her son, this is his bedroom, a safe room with blue patterned wallpaper. This is a life that monsters will never touch. "It's okay. Go to sleep."

***

_They move like soldiers, the kind of perfect unison that only comes of a lifetime spent watching each other's backs. It's the flawless economy of motion that scares her. Reminds her of some of the hunters she knew as a child, the ones who began and ended with the hunt, who were in so deep that all they could taste was blood. The ones who didn't know anything else.  
  
These haunted, damaged men are her children. Oh, God. This is what her children will become.  
  
Sam's drinking her in with his eyes, and there's a terrible, quiet desperation written into the lines of his face. Dean stands fierce, feet planted on the dusty floor. She can hear John in the tenor of his voice, but it's harsher, like he screamed his throat bloody once and never really healed.  
  
"There's a big difference between dying and not being born and believe me, we're okay with that!"_  
  
"Mary?"  
  
The first breath tastes of smoke and sulfur, the remains of the dream still clinging to her tongue. She gags, gasps, sucks in a gulp of clean air while John fights his way out of the tangle of sheets to her left. "It's okay. I'm okay. It was a nightmare."  
  
It's just a bad dream. It's never going to happen. Never. She  _promised._  
  
He slides a soothing hand over her back, big palm rough and warm against her bare skin. It's too hot for pajamas and blankets and they're both naked, tangled up together in a sweat-sticky sprawl of limbs. "You sure?"  
  
"I'm sure," she murmurs, and if it isn't entirely true, she's more than happy to smother any lingering doubts against her husband's lips.

***

_"You are so beautiful."  
  
"I'm your son. I don't know how else to say it. I'm your son."  
  
"You think you can have that normal life that you want so bad, but you can't. It's all going to go rotten. You'll die, and your children will be cursed."_  
  
Mary rolls over, forcing the voices out of her head, cotton pillowcase cool against her cheek. The baby monitor is blinking on the bedside table. Sammy's mostly been sleeping through the night, but it sounds like he's getting fussy tonight.  
  
 _promise me no matter what you hear you won't--_  
  
She shakes her head firmly and slides out from under the covers, shivering a little in the November chill. The TV is on downstairs, and her house is dark and safe, and everything is perfectly fine.


End file.
